


kindling

by merionettes (acchikocchi)



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: (dimitri voice) War Is Hell, Animal Death, During Timeskip (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:40:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24557077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acchikocchi/pseuds/merionettes
Summary: Felix misses a battle and looks for Sylvain.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 6
Kudos: 128





	kindling

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to yrin and mc for feedback! for sylvain birthday week day 3, "reunion".

It was that time of year in Faerghus, late spring, when the snow melted and froze and melted and froze again. It crunched underfoot as Felix moved through the pines screening the approach to camp.

He already knew he was too late for the battle. He'd gotten the intel when he walked into Redorno Village the night before – Kingdom troops camped half a day away, Imperial forces on a collision course. He'd tried to requisition a horse from the local innkeeper, double the asking price, but the broken-down old nag wouldn't let him within reach of her teeth. So he'd turned back around and kept walking.

The camp looked in bad shape. It had been a long winter. Still, there was a sentry stationed several yards before the huddle of tents. Felix moved out of the trees into her line of sight. 

She jumped in alarm, then jumped to attention. If she hadn't heard him coming she was a liability at the post. 

He stopped at a safe distance and displayed his Kingdom medallion. She cleared her throat nervously. "Name?"

What a joke. "Felix Fraldarius."

"Password?"

He stared at her. She made a noise, like a scared chipmunk, and lowered her lance. "Er. You're free to enter."

The camp was close to deserted. Not enough bodies to spare reserves. Tents patched and repatched listed drunkenly in wandering rows. In the center, Shamir was sitting by the firepit, sharpening one of her jagged Dagdan knives. Even, rhythmic strokes, _sssh, sssh_. A fresh bandage bound her right shoulder. That explained what she was doing in camp.

The strokes stopped. She looked up from her knives.

"You're late," she said, like he'd been gone for a few hours, and not two months.

"I know." He unshouldered his pack and propped it against one of the logs. The pack barely deserved the name. Felix traveled light. "Left Redorno on foot last night."

"Hm." She jerked her head toward one of the tents, larger and sootier than the rest. "Cook's still in the mess."

"When will the troops be back?"

She shrugged. "Could be an hour. Could be more." 

"I'll wait." He unbuckled his sword belt and sat down. 

When in doubt, routine. First his sword, always first. Oiled on either side, careful to account for the notches, the imperfections that made each sword its own individual self. Wiped clean, then for good measure oiled and wiped again. Then his daggers, the long one at his hip and a shorter pair, matched, at his thigh and in his boot. 

Next the quiver. He'd never liked the bow all that much. It didn't matter. This was war and he was a good shot. The quiver was decently full; his arrows had a good recovery rate. One or two needed refletching. He'd go out into the woods later. Then the bow itself. The string was on its last legs. The only reason he hadn't restrung it yet was because he was out of replacements. He'd meant to restock in Redorno. He'd have to talk to the quartermaster.

"Here."

Shamir never wasted time on unnecessary words. It was one of her best qualities. Felix took the paper packet she held out. "Thanks."

He unstrung the old string, coiled it, and tucked it in his pack. He braced the foot of the bow in the dirt and set his boot on it. Grunted as he bent the frame down toward him, ran the fresh string up through the bow, and looped it off.

When it was done, he ran a thumb down the string and twanged it experimentally. Just right.

"Nice," Shamir judged. 

Felix shaded a hand over his eyes. The sun had moved at least an hour's mark, maybe two, across the sky.

"Twenty minutes past noon," Shamir said. Implied: _You can't tell?_

There was a fresh hide that needed to be scraped strapped to the top of his pack. Or—

The sentry's holler broke the silence. "Troops returning from the front!"

Felix took his time. He brushed away invisible dust, iron shavings. Sheathed his weapons, checked the straps on his pack. Got up and belted on his sword. Shouldered his quiver, then his pack. Only a colossal idiot would leave his equipment and weaponry by the communal fire.

Shamir gave him a nod and he turned to walk back through the mud.

By the time he made it to the entrance to camp, the first arrivals were already riding up. Cavalry first, as usual, some with wounded slung between their mounts. Felix strode straight into their midst, flicking a glance at each rider as he passed. Several faces he remembered, some from the last autumn, some from the estates of his childhood. Unfamiliar ones, too, raw-boned recruits straight from the shops and fields into the saddle. If they'd lasted this winter they might even last the next.

In the middle of the ebb and flow, he saw past the last horses to the foot following behind – infantry, archers, mages. He must have missed it. He turned, let his eyes sweep more slowly over the cavalry as they dismounted at the sentry's post and led their horses around the tents toward the makeshift stables.

None of them had red hair. 

Felix was aware his heart was pounding. No, he would have heard. There would have been commotion, uproar. Ingrid wasn't there either, he told himself, and then remembered Ingrid was on her way to Charon, securing the supply line.

He mastered himself, as he did every day. Then he made himself look for the other thing. But none of the horses were riderless, and none of them were Sylvain's.

Maybe there was a second party. Maybe they'd come by separate roads. Maybe— A woman in a dirtied white habit was passing by. He reached out and grabbed her by the shoulder.

She started a little, but only a little. Exhaustion, or that ingrained healer's calm. His voice was harsh. "Is that all of them?"

"My lord," she said. He bit down on on _Don't waste my fucking time._ "Yes. We left the field together and had no trouble on the road."

He ground his teeth so hard it hurt. "Casualties?"

"Yes. The wounded should be settled in the infirmary now." Pause. "The dead were given rites in the field."

He hadn't seen any redheads go by on the stretchers, and he would have noticed. He always noticed.

His fingers were digging into the meat of her shoulder. It must hurt. He made himself release their grip, one by one, and then remove his hand entirely. "Sorry."

"It's all right." She dipped her head and moved on.

How long would it take him to reach the knoll, walking – an hour? Less? He should have asked. He moved against the flow, past soldiers looking forward to a boast and a hearty meal, or what passed for it, to those following slowly, hunched under the weight of another battle in an endless string of them.

He didn't notice at first. One more half-broken soldier, trudging along on foot, head bowed. Then a shaft of sunlight broke through the pines and caught on the man's hair.

It was like a physical punch. His knees wobbled, embarrassingly, on the verge of giving out. He took a breath, a moment to grasp the reins of control. 

"Sylvain," he said. Sylvain raised his head and Felix saw his face.

Felix's steps quickened, then broke into a half-run as he scoured Sylvain from head to toe and back again, throat, heart, gut, collarbone, femur, looking for the wound. Sylvain had stopped walking. He didn’t look surprised to see Felix. He stood there, waiting, until Felix reached him. Close, Felix could see the fresh lines on his face, flecks of blood, the hollows of a winter's diet.

Sylvain said, "They got my horse."

When Felix was eight and Sylvain was eleven, the Feast of the Four was held at the Gautier estate. Feast day gatherings were Felix's favorite days, all the spicy fish cakes he could eat and always someone new to beg for company sparring. Sylvain had been bursting with pride, that year, because he was eleven years old and it was time for a horse, a yearling to raise and train and look after, all on his own. The Gautiers were a cavalry line. This was his birthright. He'd spent a full hour conducting them around the stable, reciting her breeding lines, pointing out the graceful legs and smooth arch of her neck, letting Felix and Ingrid each take a turn brushing her glossy black coat.

One of the grooms burst straight into the great hall, in the middle of the feast, to call them to the pastures. Someone—no one had to say who—had saddled Sylvain's horse and taken her out from the stable to the courses. It was pitch black. She'd been trained to trust. She took the jump.

Her leg was broken. Margrave Gautier had beckoned Sylvain forward.

"This is your responsibility," he'd said, and handed him the knife.

Ingrid cried, and they ended up having to comfort her instead. Sylvain himself was pale and serious. He didn't flinch. It was his horse. And Gautiers didn't cry.

Felix inhaled deep. "Sylvain," he said again, helpless like he hadn't been in months.

Sylvain set his jaw. It couldn't stop the trembling. His eyes were wet. He tried to laugh, an awful sound, then put a hand over his face. "Shit."

Felix went forward until he was right up in Sylvain's space, close enough to feel the heat of Sylvain's body and smell the mix of leather and dried blood and sweat. He reached up and wrapped his hand around the back of Sylvain's head and yanked it forward.

Sylvain resisted for only a moment before he gave in, went with the pull and let Felix drag him down until his forehead rested on Felix's shoulder. His shoulders moved in terrible, shuddering heaves. One hand came up and gripped Felix's arm. He was still wearing his gauntlets; there'd be a bruise. "Sorry," came the sound, choked against the leather of Felix's shoulder brace. "Sorry—just—"

Felix dug his fingers into Sylvain's red hair, sweat-dried and stiff with grime, and gripped it tight. Another raw sound came from Sylvain's throat and Felix braced himself in the teeth of an enormous swell of tenderness, twinned with furious impotence at the kind of war that could pummel a man like Sylvain down into crying over a horse.

He knew he was bad at this. At comfort. That was fine, Sylvain was worse at taking it. Felix set his feet and stood there. Sylvain's shoulders heaved. Felix watched the sky. A songbird twittered overhead. He'd take the bow out later, see if there was anything that had escaped the desperation of hungry troops.

He didn't count the minutes. After a while the shuddering stopped. Sylvain let go of Felix's arm. His own fell to his side, limp. He didn't lift his head. Felix didn't let go.

Sylvain spoke first. His voice was hoarse. "Bet I know what you're thinking."

Bet he didn't. Another of those terrible laughs.

"'Pathetic.' Right? A grown man crying over a fucking horse."

"Don't be stupid," Felix said—snapped—before he could think to moderate his voice. He was resigned to the violence of his own reactions by now, when it came to Sylvain.

Sylvain didn't take the bait. Didn't say _Wow, harsh_ , or _Aw, Felix, I'm hurt._

Still speaking, muffled, into Felix's shoulder. "You know what I thought when I saw you?"

Sylvain was going to tell him anyway. Felix made a neutral noise.

"I thought, of course. Like, that was the trade-off. If I was gonna see you again, obviously someone else had to die."

Felix inhaled through his nose. Clenched his teeth and counted to ten, slowly. Unclenched them. "That's idiotic."

"That's me," Sylvain agreed, which made the fury leap higher. Typical Sylvain, to take everything the worst possible fucking way—

"Shut up. I mean—" Felix groped for words. Tightened his grip and gave Sylvain's head a hard, sharp little shake. "It's not a trade-off. You don't have to _pay._ "

Sylvain laughed into Felix's shoulder, Felix's most hated laugh, that one that said, _C'mon, this one's obvious._ "Everything's a trade-off, Felix."

"It's not," he said. "Not this."

Sylvain tried to lift his head. "Felix—"

Felix didn't let him. He smashed Sylvain's head against his shoulder and said, "Shut up. I don't fucking care what you think. If you ever say I'm anywhere for any reason other than that I decided to be I'll throw you in the fucking fishpond."

Sylvain was silent. The line of his shoulders was rigid. Tripwire tense.

"In full plate," Felix added.

Sylvain still didn't say anything. One long moment passed, and another.

"Hey, Felix?"

"What."

"My neck's starting to hurt."

"Good," Felix said, but he let go. Sylvain straightened up, rubbing the back of his neck, letting out a deep breath. His eyes were red. 

Sometimes he wondered how Sylvain could handle caring so much, all the time. But that was Sylvain. He was built to care. That was why it was so infuriating when he tried to pretend he wasn't. He couldn't help it, any more than a fire could help warming anyone who approached. 

Sylvain was looking at him with undisguised affection, clear through and through, even though he wasn't smiling. Coals glowed in Felix's chest.

"Okay," Sylvain said. He made to run a hand through his hair, then winced when tender strands caught in the gauntlet. "Gotta go talk to the quartermaster, I guess. Don't know where we're going to find a mount to spare for a while."

"I'll go with you," said Felix. 

"Yeah?" Sylvain said, one eyebrow raised.

He didn't have to explain himself. "Yeah."

"Well. All right." Sylvain stretched his arms over his head and began to amble in the direction of camp.

Felix said, "Sylvain."

Sylvain turned, inquiring. It would be so easy to leave it there. 

He looked Sylvain in the eye and said, "You don't have to trade. For me."

Sylvain's eyes were so wide he imagined he could see all the way down, down to the bottom of Sylvain's heart.

If you plunged into the flames you got blisters and burns. But if you stretched out your hands just far enough—

"Watch out," Sylvain said, sounding a little breathless. "Someone might start to believe you."

"Good," said Felix. "It's about time."

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi [@matchedpoint](http://twitter.com/matchedpoint)


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